The snow hadn't stopped, they could tell a snowstorm was incoming.
It was 0300 hours.
Cassian stood over the map table in the command tent. He didn't look like a man who had suffered a spiritual fracture forty-eight hours ago. His posture was straight, his face expressionless.
He had not visited the infirmary tents. The soldiers who had watched him collapse at the ridge expected a visitation; they expected a King who shared their grief, as per tradition, telling them all their families would be compensated.
Instead, they received coordinates.
"Advance in three columns," Cassian said. His voice was calm, stripped of its usual melodic resonance. "No staggered withdrawal. No feints. We push the center and fold the flanks inward once the breach is made."
General Xavier stood across from him, his eyes tracing the red ink lines Cassian had drawn across the Northern territory.
